(AUTHOR'S NOTE: I trust the intellect of you, the reader, to figure out the difference between characterization and actual opinion. Unfortunately, in a society so quick to respond without thinking, it's best to put this disclaimer in anyway. This story contains politically incorrect statements that I do not endorse. At all. And if you read the entire scene in question, it will be clear that I do not endorse them. At all. What scene is this? I think you'll be able to figure it out.
Also, it's of note that I'm only a casual fan of RE. Normally I wouldn't bother doing RE fanfiction, but this particular idea won't leave my head. So I did my research with a plot guide by Thomas Wilde that can be found at Game FAQs. (A direct link would be impossible.) Just keep in mind that I might - MIGHT - have gotten a few things wrong in the game canon. Again, if you catch a detail contradictory to the games, let me know (again, through private e-mail, no need to embarrass me in a review) and I'll rework it (provided that I can get it verified).
Oh, and because I'm really busy with other projects, don't expect this to be updated for a while.
So to recap, be reasonable, be understanding, be paitent. Have a ball.)
It always starts with opportunity. At first, you resist, but then you learn better after the first year. You take the pain, you play the games, you sing along with whatever song your captor's singing because you don't have much of a choice. Not until opportunity comes along. It takes four years, but it comes. It's a team of people who say they're there to help. They say they're opposed to the people who have captured you and everything they've ever so much as breathed on, and they tell you it's going to be all right. Opportunity comes. Suddenly you don't have to take the pain, nor do you have to play the games or sing the songs because you now have a choice. And you choose to run as fast as you can because you refuse to be a puppet any longer. So you run. You escape the mysterious facility even as your comrades fall around you. You run until you feel like your ankles are about to shatter from stepping so hard, and then you run some more until you finally find civilization. You realize they'll be looking for you, so you start using a fake name when you reach the orphanage. You make up some sob story about your parents being killed in a car crash and the rest of the family disowning you because this time around lying really is the right thing to do. Eventually you're adopted by a loving family. You hang out with them for a couple of years and reconnect yourself, and then you go to college.
You're afraid you'll be found one day. You're always afraid. But three years have passed and you're still doing okay. Umbrella's dead but you're alive. And maybe you'll have nothing to worry about ever again. There's the one who broke her promise that will probably never see you again, but you forgive her because you've come to peace with the fact that she's still doing something she has to do, and you wish her nothing but the best.
Still, the weight of the first four of seven years is carried around with you for longer than you could ever want and you know that it won't go away anytime soon because there's something deep inside you that won't let you forget. But you press on because it's all uphill from here. Going uphill means you push a little harder but you do it because anything's better than where you were seven years ago: in pain, playing games you don't want to play and singing songs that should never be sung again.
The New Republic - Main Offices
Washington, D.C.
November 13, 2006
Sometimes, reporters in even the most top-flite of news publications have nothing to do but play the waiting game while their source takes their sweet time calling them back. Erica Balk was in such a quandry, but she always knew how to keep herself busy: liberal conspiracy theory propaganda websites.
Erica ate such "news" up. Of course, working on the official in-flight magazine of Air Force One was bound to give one high standards to judge other reporters, especially since the editors were watching them with a focused, unblinking eye (they could thank Stephen Glass for that). Erica, however, could not begin to understand who would trust the people running these websites, over, gosh, even the Weekly World News.
But Erica, despite her inability to trust such material as fact, was always entertained by what a few liberal nuts would do to destroy President Graham.
Today on americanfreedom-dot-net was a lot of the same old, same old. For the third time in a week, there was new evidence that President Graham was re-instituting the draft to bring more soldiers to the Middle East. The source, obviously, was anonymous. Yeah, okay.
There was also...oh, now this was going too far. Apparently, biological weapons developed by Umbrella Pharmecuticals - the same ones that caused the tragedies in Raccoon City and supposedly Sheena Island as well - were still out there. Not only that, the evil President Graham, who was apparently able to rig both his election and re-election because he was a member of the Illuminati, knew about all this and was trying to keep it quiet! And they had the audio tape to prove it! And not only that, this tape proved that the week that Ashley Graham, the First Daughter, disappeared for appendicitus surgery two years ago, she was actually being held hostage by a Democratic insurgency trying to usurp Graham (as previously speculated by americanfreedom-dot-net)! Freedom was dying! Rally! Fight the power! The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots! Thomas Jefferson said it so it must be true!
This was so good, as Stewie Griffin might say, it just had to be fattening. Erica immediately clicked the MP3 of the supposed audio tape and listened.
Graham: Leon, come on in.
Leon: Thank you, Mr. President.
(silence, "Leon" is persumably taking a seat)
Leon: What can I do for you today?
Graham: Well, first of all, I want to thank you for looking after my daughter regarding all the kidnapping threats we've just had. I know she trusts you dearly after what happened to her a couple of years ago.
Leon: It was my pleasure, Mr. President. She's a wonderful person. Anyway, I needed the overtime.
Graham: Well, whether you enjoyed looking out for her or not, you have my gratitude. But the real reason I brought you in today is because of a situation that I'm told you have special knowledge of.
Leon: Yes, sir?
Graham: What do you know about Umbrella Pharmecuticals?
(pause. Did Graham strike a nerve?)
Leon: I was personally involved with the Raccoon City tragedy. It was my first day on their police force, and for obvious reasons, it didn't work out. I managed to escape the city, and at the same time, I assisted in destroying Umbrella's Arklay facility.
Graham: With Claire Redfield, is that correct?
Leon: Yes sir...she's not--
Graham: No, I haven't heard anything. I didn't know if you knew where she was.
Leon: Last I heard, Europe. With all due respect, Mr. President, what does Claire Redfield have to do with anything?
(pause)
Graham: I need whatever expertiese you my have regarding Umbrella's chemical weapons, including the T-virus, G-virus, T-Veronica virus, and this new one that you've discovered in Spain, Las Plagas. There may be more, I'm not sure. The reason I asked about Claire is that any additional help we can get, we'll need.
(pause)
Leon: Where's the attack planned?
Graham: We don't know if there is an attack planned, to be honest. The best our intelligence could tell us is that if it is pulled off, it'll be in the Northeast. It's easy to assume either here or New York City, but--
Leon: It's too big, pardon the interruption.
Graham: You're the expert, Leon. Go on.
Leon: It's easy to say that you're going to go after New York City in order to get a grip on the country. But you don't mount a full assault there unless you're suicidal. People know if something's happening in New York City, and they will come after you. That's why you go through the back door, a small town just like Raccoon City was, and you work your way from there.
(pause)
Graham: My fears exactly. This is why I need you to lead this investigation. You'll be working with the CIA to figure out if there will be an outbreak, and if so, where it'll strike. You report to me personally every day with your progress. Is that understood?
Leon: Yes sir, Mr. President. I'll get right on it.
Graham: Taryn has also been briefed on the situation. She'll tell you where you need to report.
Leon: Thank you, sir.
Graham: You're dismissed. Good luck.
Erica stopped the MP3 and laughed. DAMN, that was a brilliant impression of President Graham. She'll definitely be fowarding that to FARK later.
The phone rang, and Erica closed out of her web browser and launched Notepad. She picked up the phone.
"New Republic, Erica Balk speaking."
Regal Falls, Massachusetts
It always amazed Elza Schenider how fast the town of Regal Falls responded to snow.
The area was due for an intense blizzard overnight. By daybreak, the town could see as much as twenty-two inches of white stuff. As she drove through the town during sunset, she could see snowplows getting into position, ready to push anything that touches the blacktop off to the side.
God, she loved this town. Big enough to allow materialism, small enough to disappear into. It was a rich community, to be sure; while the majority of residents, including herself, were students that attended Regal Falls University, the second-largest group of residents made over $100,000 a year and it showed. Every building was made of sturdy brick with green and gold signs. The streets didn't have a visible seam. It was just a gorgeous town, one she wanted to move into after she graduated.
This wouldn't be impossible. Math geniuses usually did well in accounting, and Regal Falls University had excellent credentials.
Elza made a right turn and pulled into the local Shop 'n Save's parking lot.
JIMMY McNEIL
Professor
Department: Sociology
Ryan Holt was a brilliant student. He knew more about sociology than anyone else, and could quote Weber, Friedan, and Taylor at the drop of a hat. Because he already knew this stuff, the disrepsect he showed in his Social Movements class was enormous, the air of superiority around him so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Jimmy McNeil failed that little shit. Somebody needed to take that fucker down a peg, he rationalized, and it might as well be him.
Jimmy went down to the next name in his gradebook. Elza Schneider. Test grades weren't great; he averaged her out to a C+. She always participated in discussion, though, even if her theories fell flat on their faces. It also helped that she seemed desperate to really get the material down. Jimmy had no illusions: Social Movements was required by the core curriculum. Only a quarter of the students there, half at the most, were in his class out of genuine interest.
The C+ average became a B.
The next name in the gradebook was...empty. He finished his semester grades, and he was amazed that he was able to do so as early as he did. All that was left was to average in the final exam that was coming up in a couple of weeks. Not that it mattered for jerkoffs like Ryan Holt.
Jimmy checked his watch. The Daily Show was on in about an hour and a half...might as well call up Donna and see how she was doing.
He reached for the phone, picked up the reciever, dialed five numbers, and promply hung up. She needs her space, he thought to himself, don't be an asshole here.
As if to respond, whether in confirmation or argument, the phone rang the second he finished his thought. Jimmy reached for it and picked it up. "Hello?"
"...hey, Jimmy."
OK, it responded in argument, and all Jimmy could do was scramble. "Donna, hi, look, I'm--"
"Stop stop stop," struggled Donna, "Look...I need to ask you something."
"Sure, of course, how's L.A.?"
"L.A...Jimmy? Don't you think if you really wanted to marry somebody, you'd know it as soon as the question was asked?"
Jimmy's face dropped. Shit. "I...I don't know. It makes sense, you know, but Princess Diana knew he wanted to marry Prince Charles as soon as he asked. Look how well that turned out. A little distance and maybe she'd know better."
Donna laughed that beautiful laugh that she'd only use around Jimmy because only Jimmy could make her laugh like that. "You," she relaxed, "You know how to make things so...uncomplicated."
"Well don't say that if you're gonna just break my heart here! I mean, what kind of ovaries would you have to have for that?"
"I'm not gonna do that, Jimmy," she said, "I know I said I needed a week, but...God, this is so wrong doing this over the phone..."
This isn't real. Oh my God, it's actually happening.
"Let's do it. Let's get married."
YES! YES! FUCK YEAH! FUCKING HELL YES! All those things that Jimmy wanted to shout out into the reciever and to the heavens and anyone else willing to listen he just expressed with a dropped jaw and a misty-eyed laugh.
"This isn't just me thinking it's a good choice and it's not me wanting to make you happy. I love you so much, Jimmy, and I guess I freaked because...I don't know, it just, six months, you know? I was scared, I mean...dammit, you're the one who's supposed to be afraid to commit!"
Jimmy could only laugh and say, "I know, it was my fault that I pushed you away and I am so, so, so sorry, it was...it just feels like fate to me. I don't know--"
"It does, Jimmy...it so does. I'm going to catch the next flight to Boston--"
"Nonononononono!" reacted Jimmy, "Don't do that. I'm coming to you, got it?"
"Don't you have--?"
"I'll get a graduate assistant to teach my classes for now. What are they gonna do? I have tenure."
Donna chuckled. "Are you sure?"
"I'm positive! I can't leave tonight because I'm getting sacked with snow but I'll leave tomorrow morning as soon as the planes are ready to leave the ground. Okay?"
"Okay! I'll see you tomorrow night!"
"I love you!"
"I love you too! Be careful in the snow!"
"I will! Goodnight!"
"Goodnight!"
He heard Donna hang up the phone, but all he could do was stand there, holding the reciever while he pumped his arms into the air.
KEVIN REYBURN-STRATTON
Senior
Major: Business
REGGIE STRATTON
Senior
Major: Business
When the Stratton Boys rolled into the bar named 8 O'Clock High, everybody took notice.
Kevin was the older one, a black, muscle-bound man who didn't do too much talking but Goddamn, could he throw a football. Reggie was white, lean, but fast as hell and even if he wasn't, nobody dared lay a finger on him. Not out of fear of violent retribution, mind you; they just didn't know what the hell someone like Reggie would do if he was messed with.
"Yo, Charlie," Reggie greeted the bartender.
"How's it going, boys?" Charlie greeted, "Sorry about the season."
"Ah, fuck the season," responded Reggie, "I'll meet the Post Pioneers again when I wave to them from the field at Gillette Stadium."
"Hey! Darkie! We don't serve fried chicken in here!"
The offending voice belonged to a new guy, sitting at a table with three other friends, obviously drunk enough to think that that he was in 1960's Mississippi. He was college age, southern accent, with equally drunk college friends.
Reggie looked before Kevin did, and when Kevin looked, he didn't seem all that interested. When Reggie looked, though, everbody got a feeling that they were about to find out what would happen when somebody crossed Reggie's path.
Nobody got the feeling, however, that Reggie was going to laugh.
"BWAHAHAHAHAH!" he bellowed, pointing at the drunken bastards, "OH MY GOD THAT IS FUNNY!" He turned to the rest of the bar. "YOU GUYS GET IT, RIGHT?"
Everybody stared in shocked silence.
"THAT GUY'S A NIGGER! GET IT? ALL NIGGERS HAVE DARK SKIN! AND IF THAT WASN'T ENOUGH, ALL THEY EVER DO IS EAT FRIED CHICKEN, AND THAT'S WHY IT'S FUNNY! GET IT? GOT IT? HUH? HUH?" Reggie started laughing again. "CHARLIE," he motioned to the bartender, "Such originality deserves a beer! Get this guy a beer--what's your name?"
"Ryan."
"RYAN," he bellowed, "Get...RYAN...a beer."
Charlie, the bartender, looked strangely at Reggie until Kevin gave him a nod. Charlie grabbed a bottle of beer and slid it over to Reggie. Reggie opened the beer and walked toward the table where Ryan and his friends were sitting.
"So, hey, I've got a joke..." Reggie, chuckling, took a seat at Ryan's table and made himself comfortable. "So this nigger and his white brother walks into a bar, right? No, wait, actually they're stepbrothers, but whatever-the-fuck-ever. Anyway, they walk into the bar, and you're you--"
There was an audible SMASH and before anybody could react Ryan was on the ground and his three friends were being held hostage by Reggie who was armed with a broken beer bottle. "WHO'S FUCKING NEXT?" he shouted, "DARE ME! DARE ME!"
The three friends didn't dare to dare, instead electing to bolt out the door.
Lean, but fast as hell.
Ryan, having regained conciousness, tried to crawl out the door with blood pouring down over eyes, but Reggie had grabbed him by the ear. "Hey, Kev, wanna do the honors?"
Kevin Stratton got off of his seat and strolled toward Ryan as if giving him the beating of his life would be just another day. Kevin grabbed Ryan by his hair and lifted him to his eyes.
"From now on," said Kevin, "You see a brother eating fried chicken, you assume the brother just felt like fried chicken. And before you think about using any word starting with the letter 'n,' you better look around for my ass first. Because if I'm around to hear it, y'all gonna be tasting your own shit on the tip of my shoe. Got it?"
"Y-yeah."
"Now all we gotta do is make sure you remember it."
CRASH went Ryan through the window to laughter, applause, shock, and a little anger. Kevin simply went back to his seat, again as if he had done nothing. Reggie took the time to bow before he came back.
"Hey, Charlie," asked Kevin as he sat back down, "How much is that window?"
"Just dedicate a Super Bowl to me and you're good to go."
"Yeah," Kevin chuckled, "Sure thing."
"I'm just kiddin', ya cheap bastard. A hundred bucks and a couple of favors and we'll call it even."
"Deal. Got it, Reg?"
"A hundred bucks and a couple of favors," said Reggie as he sat back down, "That's fair. Toast to it?"
Charlie poured three beers, one for each person, and toasted the agreement. "We'll pay you tomorrow," said Kevin.
"No sweat," said Charlie, "I know you boys are good for it."
CURTIS BALK
Freshman
Major: Film
"You see, the key there was to use the bond to trick the defense," said Reggie Stratton, "They all think Kevin's gonna throw me the ball because we're brothers and we know each other best. But he can pull off a play just as well with Ty or Chris. The only difference between Ty and Chris and me is that he doesn't need to say as much to me, y'know?" Reggie chuckled as he said that last part, and Curtis Balk froze him by hitting the space bar.
Curtis went to his footage bin in Final Cut Pro and got a real sweet play from October 2004's homecoming game. Last play of the game, and the Regal Falls Generals were down by four with 40 yards to go. The formation said "Pass." The formation said "Reggie was the primary reciever." But when Kevin snapped the ball, the formation was revealed as a pathological liar. Not only did Kevin not pass to Reggie (who was covered six ways from Sunday), but he handed it off to Tyrone Buñel, who marched the full 40 yards with help from blocker Tafare "Terry" Berry and won the game. The play, created by Reggie Stratton, was christened "Con Job" and thanks to its sporadic employ, the Generals would steal countless games with it.
Curtis did some tinkering with the footage of this play. In the end, when he integrated the footage into the movie, it looked like this.
REGGIE: You see, the key there was to use the bond to trick the defense.
(CUT TO: "Con Job", 10/7/04. Everybody's at the line of scrimmage.)
REGGIE (VOICEOVER): They all think Kevin's gonna throw me the ball because we're brothers and we know each other best.
(Ball is snapped.)
REGGIE (V.O., CONT'D): But he can pull off a play just as well with (FREEZE FRAME, ZOOM IN on handoff to Buñel) Ty or Chris.
(CUT TO: Reggie Stratton interview.)
REGGIE: The only difference between Ty and Chris and me is that he doesn't need to say as much to me, y'know? (Laughs.)
(CUT TO: "Con Job", 10/7/04. From handoff. Buñel runs the ball 40 yards with Berry for touchdown.)
Curtis stopped the movie again, satisfied.
"Hey, snow's starting to fall," said Chris, the director of the documentary Curtis was editing, "C'mon, close up and get outta here before it gets too bad."
Curtis turned to Chris. "You sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. You're ahead of schedule as is. Go on, get going. You don't want to stay in the film department all day, do you?"
"No, sir. Thanks a lot."
"No problem. Have a safe drive."
At the first red light Curtis came across, he pulled out his cell phone and punched in Elza Schneider's number. After a couple of rings, she picked up and said "Hey, I'm just getting in. How far off are you?"
"About five minutes."
ELZA SCHENIDER
Sophomore
Major: Accounting
"I'll see you then, babe. Love you."
"Love you too."
Elza hung up and got back to planning the night. There was a chicken bake in the oven that would be ready to serve in about twenty minutes. The table was set. The movie, Cellular, was on the coffee table. Everything was great except for the wave of nausea that had suddenly hit her, and Elza made a move to correct that by heading into the bathroom for some Pepto-Bismol.
She opened the bathroom door and opened the medicine cabinet, the stomace medicine staring back at her. She reached for--
FLASH
Was the sound heard in her mind when it suddenly felt like the veins in her face started channeling battery acid instead of her blood
Oh fucking shit oh fucking shit no
and she dropped to the sink and started running cold water, as cold as she could get it, splashing herself with it is much as possible but the pain wasn't going away
Dear God no don't let this happen not now
the water didn't do anything and she shut the door even though she heard the knock on her door
Curtis go away please go
and she sat in her bathtub breathing in...and out...and in...and out...
Wasting away again in Margaritaville
Searching for my lost shaker of salt
Some people say that there's a woman to blame
But I know it's my own damn fault
She was all right now.
In...and out...and in...and out.
This had to be the strongest attack she had ever had. She could only sit and wonder if it was a fluke, or if the "devil" within her was getting stronger.
She heard the knocking on the door again and she wanted to cry.
She resolved to cry later, putting on her best smile, drying off her face,and walking out to the front door.